


A Fate Inescapable

by asterismal (asterisms)



Category: Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Skyrim Fusion, Dragonborn Harry Potter, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Thalmor Justiciar Voldemort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-06
Updated: 2020-06-06
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:15:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24568318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/asterisms/pseuds/asterismal
Summary: The headsman grips Harry’s thin shoulder with his heavy hand; he shoves Harry to his knees. With a shuddering breath, Harry leans forward over the block. The scent of blood and wet dirt fills his mouth. He turns his head. He wants to see the sky when he goes.Instead, he sees—A dark shape blots out the sun, and a shadow falls over Helgen. Another cry splits the air, so loud he feels it in his bones, in his throat.The earth shatters around him.A shout—words he feels but doesn’t know, not yet—and all he sees is fire.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Voldemort
Comments: 20
Kudos: 141





	A Fate Inescapable

**Author's Note:**

> Much of the dialogue was taken directly from Skyrim’s opening scene. A few lines were taken from DH ch 34.
> 
>  **Warning for this chapter:** Harry witnesses a man's beheading 
> 
> The summary will probably change as we move further along.

“Are you sure you have to go?” Ron asks.

Harry looks up from where he’s tucking a bundle of deer jerky into his pack, right beside the carrots and health potions he’d managed to steal from the last bandit camp he raided. He’s certain Molly will force some potatoes into his hands before he leaves, so he’s left some room for those as well.

“I am,” he says. He grabs a pair of lock-picks and slips them into an outer pocket. “We need the money.”

“But—”

“Two  _ hundred  _ septims, Ron.”

He drags his cloak out from beneath the bed he shares with Ron whenever he stays with the Weasleys and folds it over one arm. While it’s technically spring, even the southern holds don’t get all that warm until midsummer, and the nights are cold year round. 

He hears Ron’s foot tap anxiously against the floor. “Does Mum know what you’ll be doing?”

“Erm, no,” Harry says, avoiding Ron’s pointed gaze. He slings his pack onto his back and stands, tugging at the straps to make sure his sewing job will hold. “Let’s keep it that way, yeah?”

“Harry…”

“It’s not as if I’m going to kill a man,” Harry protests. He bites at his lip. “It’s just, er…”

“Smuggling,” Ron offers dryly. 

Harry sighs. “Right.” 

In all fairness, he doesn’t think Ron has very much room to judge; the Weasleys have been living off the results of Harry’s poaching for years. Considering all he’s smuggling to Cyrodiil is a letter and some pendants with the mark of Talos, he thinks poaching might actually be the worse of the two crimes. 

Well, unless he’s caught by the Thalmor.

Then again, if he’s caught by the right (or  _ wrong,  _ rather) Thalmor agent, Talos worship will be the least of his worries. Frowning at himself, he does his best to shove all thoughts of the Thalmor aside. 

“It’ll be fine, Ron,” he says, and he doesn’t even need to fake any of his confidence. He lets Ron pull him into a hug, patting his friend’s shoulder. “You’ll see.”

He’s been learning how to avoid capture by hold guards since before his parents died. 

He isn’t going to fail now. 

And he doesn’t fail.

He makes his way to Applewatch, just south of the border, as arranged and trades his discreetly wrapped bundle for four coin purses, which make up the remaining two-thirds of his payment. The road back to Skyrim is as easy as the road out.

It isn’t until he reaches the border again that trouble finds him. 

For most of the journey, he’s been keeping to the roads, because picking his way across the mountains is too dangerous—and too slow—otherwise. Once he reaches flatter ground, however, he abandons the well-trod paths for untamed forest and the occasional hunter’s trail.

It’s safer this way.

Wolves and frostbite spiders (which are growing more active by the day thanks to the warming weather) will attack regardless of where he walks, but avoiding the roads means avoiding the patrolling guards that travel along them. 

At least in theory. 

Harry stills, holding his breath as he listens to the forest around him. The silence is the first sign.

Then, the creak of a leather glove somewhere behind him. 

Steel boots over moss. 

The sound of a sword being drawn, and someone begins to run. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees sunlight catch in blond hair as a man, clad in blue over leather and mail, races through the trees. More follow. 

They’re heading his way.

Harry bursts from his crouch, sprinting for more cover. He doesn’t know who these men are, and he doesn’t know who’s chasing them, but he doesn’t plan on sticking around to find out. Behind him, someone shouts. 

An arrow whistles over his shoulder, piercing the trunk of a nearby tree with a heavy thud. 

He runs faster.

The next arrow grazes his arm, and he stumbles with the force of it, tripping over a log he’d meant to clear. He’s back on his feet between breaths, but it isn’t enough. He goes down—and stays down—with an arm across his shoulders and a dagger at his throat. The last thing he hears before the world goes dark is the clash of iron and steel. 

He wakes in stages. 

The ground moves oddly beneath him, and it takes longer than it should for him to realize that it isn’t the ground that’s moving at all. He’s in a cart. 

He’s been… captured? 

When he blinks his eyes open, wincing at the bloom of pain in his head, he sees his hands bound between his knees. Yep. He’s been captured. 

Great. 

“Hey, you.”

Ugh, Harry thinks as he forces his eyes open again, lifting his chin from where it’s lolling forward against his chest. Fuck. He hadn’t realized he’d closed them again.

“You’re finally awake.”

Is he? Probably. He certainly hurts enough to be awake. 

By all the gods.

Ron’s going to kill him.

“You were trying to cross the border, right?” Harry finally gets a good look at the man who’s talking at him—a Nord in Stormcloak blue. “Walked right into that Imperial ambush, same as us, and that horse thief over there.” 

Us? Harry looks at the man again, then to his left. Ahead of them, more men and women are being carried by cart, and they’re all wearing the same armor. The same colors. Stormcloaks. 

Fucking  _ Stormcloaks,  _ Harry thinks as he bends forward, until he can press his forehead against his knees. Of all the traps to stumble into, he just had to get caught up in this one.

_ Ugh.  _

“Damn you, Stormcloaks,” the man beside the blond Nord mutters, half to himself. And finally, a sentiment Harry can get behind. He looks up, taking in the ragged clothing the man wers, nothing at all like Stormcloak armor. Right. Horse thief. “Skyrim was fine until you came along. The Empire was nice and lazy. If they hadn’t been looking for you, I could’ve stolen that horse and been halfway to Hammerfell by now.”

The man sitting next to Harry snorts. At least, that’s what Harry thinks he does. 

It’s difficult to tell through the gag. 

The horse thief turns to Harry. “You and me,” he says, a wild look in his eyes, “we shouldn’t even be here. It’s these Stormcloaks the Empire wants.” 

Which is true, but really—

“We’re all brothers and sisters in bonds now, thief,” the blond Nord says, and Harry couldn’t have said it better himself. 

The soldier at the front of the cart tosses an irritated glare over his shoulder. “Shut up back there,” he says as the cart passes over a particularly jarring bump in the road. 

The horse thief doesn’t listen, and now Harry is certain that  _ he’s  _ a Nord as well. “And what’s his problem?” he asks, nodding to the gagged man at Harry’s right. 

Harry can’t help but wonder the same thing.

This man isn’t dressed like the others. His clothes are finer, his armor heavier. And then there’s the gag, which none of the other prisoners have been subjected to. He’s either a ranked commander, or…

“Watch your tongue,” the blond Nord snaps. He turns to the gagged man, and the look on his face turns almost reverent. “You’re speaking to Ulfric Stormcloak, the true High King of Skyrim.”

Harry considers whether it’d be worth it to throw himself out of the cart here and now.

Ron used to dream of journeying to Windhelm, of joining his eldest brothers there and fighting under the Stormcloak banner. Molly (with plenty of help from Percy, which honestly might have hindered her attempts) talked him out of it eventually, but it wasn’t until Harry shared his own less-than-stellar experiences with some of the more opinionated Stormcloaks that the matter was put entirely to rest. Of course, it’d then fallen upon Harry to stop Ron before he could hunt down the nearest camp and attempt to fight the whole lot of them for Harry’s honor. 

If he’s going to die today, he’d rather not do it at Ulfric Stormcloak’s side.

“The Jarl of Windhelm?” the horse thief asks, panic staining his voice. “But you’re the leader of the rebellion! If they’ve captured you…” His voice trails off. The next time he speaks, his voice is faint. “Oh gods, where are they taking us?”

The blond Nord lifts his chin; his eyes are bright. “I don’t yet know where we’re going,” he says, “but Sovngarde awaits.” 

His voice doesn’t shake. Harry almost admires him for it.

Meanwhile, the horse thief has fallen into prayer, begging the gods to intervene. 

“Where are you from, horse thief?” the blond Nord asks, interrupting. 

The horse thief lifts his head. His face is pale. “What?” he asks, and his voice trembles. “Why do  _ you _ care?”

“A Nord’s last thoughts should be of home.”

Harry clenches his jaw and looks away.

“Rorikstead,” the horse thief says, his shoulders slumping. “I… I’m from Rorikstead.” 

For a long moment, there’s only the sound of hoofbeats and the cart’s wheels turning over the path. Harry closes his eyes, imagines he’s in the Weasleys’ kitchen, helping Molly with the evening meal. 

In his mind’s eye, he sees Ron’s shoes by the open door and the scorch marks that cover the walls—left over from the twins’ latest attempt at alchemy. 

He sees Ginny coming up the path, her hair like fire in the light of the setting sun, glinting off the mountain peaks.

“And you, friend?” 

It takes Harry a moment to realize the blond Nord is speaking to him, and he flinches as he opens his eyes again. “What?” he asks, blinking away the sights of his home.

His eyes burn.

“You haven’t said a word since you woke,” the Nord says. He settles back, watches Harry with a solemn gaze. “Tell us of your home.”

Harry doesn’t know if he can.

But he knows he’s going to try, because he thinks the silence might be worse. 

“My— my family tends a farm in the Rift,” he says. He thinks of long days, of sweat on his brow and the ache in his muscles when the work was done. “Just south of the Treva, where the water runs smooth as glass.” His voice is hoarse, as if he’s been shouting. “I was on my way back to them when…”

The blond Nord bows his head, and Harry looks back to his bound hands. 

He wants to go home.

The cart rounds a bend in the road, and they see city walls rising from the dirt. As the line of carts approaches, the wooden gates creak open. A soldier on the wall calls to one of the men at the head of the line.

But Harry doesn’t listen.

Instead, he watches the man sat across from him. “You know this place,” he says, catching the wistful expression on the blond Nord’s face.

The Nord nods.

“This is Helgen,” the man tells him, his voice fond. “I used to be sweet on a girl from here. I wonder if Vilod still makes that mead with the juniper berries mixed in…” They pass through the gates, and the Nord frowns as he looks over the settlement. “How things change… When I was a boy, the Imperial walls and towers used to make me feel so safe.”

Near the gates, a party of elves waits. Thalmor, Harry thinks, but none that he knows. 

One of the Imperials leaves the line to speak to them.

The blond Nord scowls at the sight. “Look at them,” he says with a dark glare. “General Tullius—the Military Governor himself—and those Thalmor dogs. Damn elves. I bet they had something to do with this.”

Harry… really doesn’t care. About the elves. 

About anything. 

A boy trots alongside the cart until his father drags him away.

The carts reach their destination. They stop in a large public square, and in the center of the open space, the headsman waits beside the chopping block. Harry’s gaze lands on the large axe propped at his side, and he feels as if he’s going to be sick. 

The horse thief panics. “Why have we stopped?” he demands, breathless. 

“Why do you think?” the blond Nord asks. He snorts then adds, “It’s the end of the line.” If his hands were free, Harry imagines he’d clasp one hand over the horse thief’s shoulder. “Let’s go—shouldn't keep the gods waiting for us.”

“No, wait!” the horse thief protests as they’re ordered to stand. “I’m not a rebel!” 

“Face your death with some dignity, thief,” the blond Nord says, nudging the thief forward and out of the cart. 

Harry holds his breath. He steps down to solid ground, and he feels as if he could float away into nothing.

“You’ve got to tell them,” the horse thief is saying as Harry steps up behind him. “We weren’t with you; this is a mistake!” 

One of the Imperials—a captain by the quality of her armor—steps forward. “Step toward the block when we call your name,” she commands. “One at a time.”

The blond Nord snorts. “The empire and their damn lists,” he mutters. 

Harry eyes the man, wondering how he can be annoyed by something so small right now.

“Ulfric Stormcloak,” the soldier beside the captain calls, reading from his scroll. “Jarl of Windhelm.” 

As Ulfric Stormcloak goes, his head held high, the blond Nord stands taller. “It has been an honor, my Jarl,” he says, and he looks as if he wants nothing more than to reach out and touch him. Ulfric holds the man’s gaze as he passes, and Harry looks away.

“Ralof of Riverwood.”

The blond Nord steps proudly forward, then turns to follow his Jarl. As he goes, he spares a grim smile for Harry. “It’ll be alright, lad,” he says.

Lad, Harry thinks, half-hysterical, is right. Not even twenty years to his name, and he’s going to die. He’s going to die, his head lopped off by the headsman’s axe. 

What a shitty way to go.

“Lokir of Rorikstead.” 

The horse thief is shaking where he stands. “No,” he says, “I’m not a rebel. You can’t do this!”

The captain meets his protest with stony silence. The soldier with the list reaches one hand forward, as if to usher him along. But the horse thief, Lokir, only tenses as he takes a step back, and Harry feels his eyes widen as he realizes what the man is about to do. As Harry opens his mouth to call a warning—as he steps closer, as if he could stop the man—Lokir runs, knocking the Imperials aside as he goes.

Harry watches with his heart in his throat.

He isn’t going to make it.

“Halt, prisoner!” the captain calls after him, but Lokir doesn’t stop. With a sigh, the captain says, her voice level, “Archers.”

And Lokir falls with one shot.

Harry bows his head and whispers a half-remembered prayer. He wonders what Lokir was thinking of, if he was thinking of anything. 

“Anyone else feel like running?” the captain calls to the remaining prisoners. 

No one moves. 

The soldier at her side clears his throat. “Step forward,” he tells Harry. When Harry does, he frowns and looks back to his list. “You’re not on… Who are you?”

Harry licks at his lips, nervous even though his name should be the least of his concerns, considering. “My name is Harry, sir,” he says, and his voice is steady.

It’s true, sort of, in the sense that it’s the only name he’s used since his mother died. The man’s eyes narrow, as if he can sense there’s something Harry isn’t telling him.

But he doesn’t press. 

Of course he doesn’t. By the time the sun sets, he’ll be dead. 

What will his name matter then?

“You’ve the look of a Breton, Harry,” the soldier says. He peers closer. “You from Daggerfall, then? Fleeing from some court intrigue?” Harry shakes his head, his eyes wide, and the man snorts. “Thought not,” he says to himself. Then, louder: “Captain, what should we do? He’s not on the list.” 

“Forget the list,” the captain orders, already turning away to inspect the line of prisoners. “He goes to the block.”

The soldier hesitates, but says, “By your orders, captain.”

It’s really happening, then.

“Fuck,” Harry says under his breath as his eyes slip shut. He’d hoped—

When the soldier clears his throat, Harry’s gaze snaps back to his face. “I’m sorry,” the soldier tells him, and he looks as if he actually means it. “We’ll make sure your remains are returned to High Rock.”

“No!” Harry protests. He sees the captain look back at his outburst and lowers his voice. “I mean. I have family in the Rift. Send… send everything there.” 

It’s bad enough that he’s about to die.

He doesn’t want to disappear without a trace; he needs the Weasleys to know what happened to him. He can’t bear to leave them wondering. 

“Alright,” the soldier says after a beat. He adds a note to his scroll. “Follow the captain, prisoner.” 

Harry takes a deep, steadying breath, and then he goes. He takes his place beside Ralof, and he does his best to keep breathing. 

General Tullius steps up beside the block, his dark gaze trained on Ulfric Stormcloak. Harry feels the way Ralof tenses at his side. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the man’s jaw clench.

“Ulfric Stormcloak,” the general begins, his voice flat, utterly devoid of emotion. He paces forward, his steps even. “Some here in Helgen call you a hero, but a hero doesn’t use a power like the Voice to murder his king and usurp his throne.” 

Ulfric Stormcloak's reply is muffled by his gag, but Harry can imagine what he’d say if he were unbound. 

“You started this war,” the general continues, “plunged Skyrim into chaos, and now the Empire is going to put you down. We  _ will  _ have peace.”

Ralof is glaring at the general now, and the other Stormcloaks are shifting in place, as if they could do anything at all to make the man take back his words. The Imperials grip their weapons, ready to draw. Ulfric Stormcloak only meets the general’s gaze, unafraid. 

Harry wishes the general would just get on with it. He thinks the waiting is the worst part.

Over the mountains, a terrible sound rings through the air—like thunder or… a voice? 

“What was that?” the soldier with the list asks, looking to the sky.

General Tullius turns back to the block. “It’s nothing,” he says flatly, dismissive. “Carry on.”

A priestess of Arkay reads them their last rights.

Harry listens without hearing, his heart pounding fiercely in his chest. He clenches his fists, digging his nails into his palms. The sharp pain of it is almost grounding. 

Almost. 

He watches the first Stormcloak step up to the block, and he feels as if he’s watching from very far away. The man kneels, and then he leans forward, and the headsman lifts his axe.

Harry doesn’t flinch when it happens.

He doesn’t look away.

He watches a man die with wide eyes, his heart beating like a drum in his chest. The axe swings through the air and hits the block. The Stormcloak’s head falls cleanly, landing on the ground with a dull thud. He thinks he’ll never forget that sound, even if he lives another hundred years. 

But he doesn’t get to live another hundred years. 

As the onlookers jeer, eager for more Stormcloak blood to be shed, the captain calls, “Next, the Breton.”

She means him, Harry knows. For a long moment, he doesn’t move. He can’t. Another cry rings through the air, closer now. His chest is tight; his eyes sting.

“There it is again,” the soldier with the list exclaims. “Can’t anyone hear that?”

The captain ignores him. “I said, next prisoner!”

Harry steps forward before anyone can make him—once, then again.

He stands before the block, and he feels dizzy.

The headsman grips Harry’s thin shoulder with his heavy hand; he shoves Harry to his knees. With a shuddering breath, Harry leans forward over the block. The scent of blood and wet dirt fills his mouth. He turns his head.  He wants to see the sky when he goes.

Instead, he sees—

A dark shape blots out the sun, and a shadow falls over Helgen. Another cry splits the air, so loud he feels it in his bones, in his throat. 

The earth shatters around him.

A shout—words he feels but doesn’t know, not yet—and all he sees is fire. 

**Author's Note:**

> To all of my shipping friends, worry not. We will meet Voldemort in the next chapter. 
> 
> Skyrim has been my comfort game for a few months now, and I've basically buried myself in playing it since my grandpa died just over a week ago. Since I wasn't in the mood to work on any of my wips I was focused on at the time, I decided self-indulgence was exactly what I needed. And so this AU was born.


End file.
